


An Exorcism

by Hopetohell



Category: Blood Creek (2009)
Genre: Blood, Bloodplay, Bodily Fluids, Chains, Exorcisms, Experimental Style, Knifeplay, Knives, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Smut, Wounds, handjobs, honor bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 13:20:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29510283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: Evan, tormented, comes to you for help.
Relationships: Evan Marshall (Blood Creek)/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	An Exorcism

Oh what a pretty picture Evan makes with his jaw stubble-sharp and bright with blood; he hangs in his chains and there are bruises blooming under the links. He could free himself with the simple act of opening his hands, but he won’t. Because Evan needs this, needs it as much as air: the cruel and unrelenting pain that you deliver, to blank his mind and wash him clean. 

There’s something to those old days, to the bleeding of the sick; not in the medicine, which was a lie, but in the exorcising of demons and the airing of old secrets. This would be best done on a moonless night, with lanterns lit in the hollow to make a cage of golden light. Thus could Evan be exorcised and his demons trapped and torn apart. 

But as it is, hollows and fairy rings are beyond your reach and the moon is high. But Evan came to your door weak and pale, brow damp and begging _please. Burn it out of me. I can feel them clawing, tearing, biting at my insides. Help me now because I cannot bear it._

And perhaps you lack a hollow, but you have the barn and you have the chains, and when you tell him _by your will_ he understands; he winds their lengths around his wrists and strikes a crucifixion pose there in the dark and dusty barn, moonlight streaming through the windows and shining on his sweating skin. Like this he is beautiful; when you make the cuts and part his flesh he becomes transcendent. 

_It is pain, sweetness, pain that makes you clean. It makes of you a holy thing, which demons cannot bear. And therefore in this act we will drive your demons out. A scourge would be traditional, but in its absence this knife will do. See how sharp it is, how it shines in this pale light. I will bleed you, Evan dear, and by your blood you will be rendered whole again._

Evan Marshall’s flesh is weak but his will is iron. He holds his chains and accepts their marks upon his flesh, links of chain wrapped round his wrists, clutching with his fists upon the iron. 

_Iron and blood, sweetheart. Steel. Lamps lit with oil blessed by the dying. All these things will set you free. I will cut you now. It’s alright if you scream; I understand. All that matters is that you are still for me. Make your noises, love, but do not move: this is the only order I can give you. I’ve lit the lamps, you see, and though this place is holier than most it’s still a risk to open you here._

_Look at you, my pretty broken thing._ Blood runs hot and slick down Evan’s chest and he is making such soft and sweet sounds of pain. But here’s a little secret: he is hard. He is hard and he is horrified, that this should be his body’s reaction. But his flesh burns for this, and in the midst of blood-flecked groans you ask him _do you want;_ you hang motionless in the moment with him until he bares his teeth and answers 

_yes._

There is nothing in the world so fine as this, as Evan’s cock slick and warm with blood beneath your palm; in him, the pain of all his wounds is tangled up with pleasure til he cannot make sense of it, til he can only feel. And this, too, is a benediction; the devils tried to claim sex for their own but how they failed. In acts like these, when pain and pleasure writhe within the silken threads of _yes I want,_ demons burn and break apart; their ashes float away. 

And when he comes it is with a single sharp and perfect gasp; his seed is pearling in your palm all mixed with blood. And you paint him in his colors, red and white; he is smeared with sigils that cross his cuts, that writhe about his flesh like living things. And this, too, is a holy thing, that he should be marked with these signs of life. 

_Ashes for the past. Blood for the present. Semen for the future._ All his many paths branch out from these three points; in the tangled thorns of time and hope and love— yes, _love_ — his demons are confused and so they are subdued. They cannot fathom how sex and pain add up to equal _yes,_ and while their heads are spinning it is possible to cast them out. They funnel down the Y of Evan’s arms and chest; they bleed out through his many cuts and fall into the lamplight. And Evan, feeling their departure, opens up his hands; he falls upon his knees and feels the earth below him tremble for a moment with the forces of release and of excision. 

And _Evan, oh my darling, oh my love, how you amaze me. Listen. All those who came before are watching; can you hear their applause in the rustling of leaves outside? Some nod and smile and say ‘that’s how it’s done;’ still others weep and wish they’d known. And you, my darling dear, you know the trick: when demons writhe about your bones you’ll come to me. And I will cut you open; I will make you bleed and make you come, and you will find your peace._


End file.
